


Could be worse (I could be taking you down with me)

by Affectionary, feyrelay



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Peter Parker, CCTV, College, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Massage, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Public Masturbation, Sex Toys, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Parker, Verbal Humiliation, gushing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-15 12:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17528498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Affectionary/pseuds/Affectionary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: Ch. 1: Tony can't be with his boyfriend, Peter, at MIT on this fine Saturday morning, so he improvises.Ch. 2: Pete's been having trouble getting off without squicking himself and triggering dysphoria; Tony helps.Ch. 3: The grand smut finale. Featuring the Iron Gauntlet and puddles on the parquet of Peter's dorm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NastyBambino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NastyBambino/gifts).



> This work also has a pretty fluffy playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM8s98ICGTMEcGynkgXas09P

Given that Peter and Tony have so far successfully overcome the obstacles of May’s disapproval, their age gap, Peter’s dysphoria before his top surgery, the differences in their financial backgrounds, both being superheroes (but, a different _kind_ of super), and so on and so on, well.

A little geographical distance shouldn’t be such a big deal. Cambridge is only an hour away from Manhattan by private jet.

But, well. All of Peter’s friends at MIT have significant others or friends-with-benefits who live in town, and Peter doesn’t really need one more thing making him feel different, _separate_ , from others.

Tony has said he can’t come this weekend because he has to put in some face time at a boring champagne brunch Saturday morning. The older man laments it especially because 1) no one talks to Tony at these things, saying he’s too unapproachable since the break-up with Pepper, and 2) Peter knows from his goddamn, annoying-as-fuck birth control (vitamins, vitamins, vitamins, that’s all they are, he tells himself) that he’s ovulating and it’s making him wet and needy and _fuck his body, seriously_ -

Anyway. Peter’s on his own today, and the sun is shining over Cambridge and he hates it.

He gets out of the apartment, though, because his genderfluid roommate is under-cutting and coloring their hair _again_ and the only thing more jarring to Peter’s enhanced senses than the noise of the electric razor is the smell of hair dye.

As soon as Peter’s thick boots carry him off the bus and into Cambridge proper, towards Harvard Square, the little earbud in his ear blares to life.

Karen says, “Incoming call from Tony Stark.”

Peter answers with a huff, “Hi. Thought you were too busy for me this morning?”

He’s not actually mad, but he enjoys being a brat now and again. Tony just chuckles down the line before responding. “Hello to you too, puppy. Also, never. Having fun in the sun?”

“Not really; I was gonna visit some of these rummage sales in the classifieds section and see if I can find any salvageable tech.”

It’s Tony’s turn to huff, “You have a billionaire’s lab at your disposal, and you want to spend your Saturday buying up some church grandmas’ VHS players?”

“Unless you have a better idea? How’s the brunch, by the way?”

Tony just hums and deflects, and Peter lets him because he understands the way Tony’s mind works. The other man says, instead of answering his question, “Hey, speaking of brunch, take the next left and look for the Charles Hotel.”

“What?” Peter asks. “Are you… spying on me?”

“Eh, define ‘spying’? Cambridge has far too little CCTV, in my humble opinion.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s not a police state like Manhattan,” Peter returns, as he glances around trying to figure out where Tony is watching him from. There’s an ATM across the way with two separate cameras, so it’s probably one of those.

“Seriously, Peter. Don’t you trust me? Left to the Charles Hotel,” Tony’s voice intones, going a bit deep and gently commanding around the edges.

Peter goes left.

\---

Tony clearly intends to feed him, in more ways than one, today; however, literal food is first on the agenda. The Charles Hotel is home to a restaurant called Henrietta’s Table, and Peter is, apparently, expected for brunch.

The maître d’hôtel makes sure Peter is set up at a table, and not at the bar, and of course Tony has thought of everything; if he’d been at the bar, it would have drawn attention whenever he spoke to the earpiece, to Tony.

Tony has ordered for him, too; Peter’s server brings over a platter of buttery scallops, small pieces of crispy toast with pâté, fresh fruit, and macarons that are delicately flavored in deference to the early hour. No drink, though.

Peter’s server informs him that his reservation had included registration for this morning’s champagne service, but that Peter’s ‘patron’ (as the man puts it) had neglected to inform them as to what brand and vintage he would be drinking.

Peter is presented with several options for champagne to go with his sumptuous breakfast, with prices ranging from $50 for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot yellow label to several times that for Dom Pérignon Rosé or Cristal. He asks for a moment to choose and his server steps away.

“Uh, Tony? Are you there? What should I choose?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sweetheart; there are no cameras inside the restaurant,” Tony answers, voice all faux-innocence and smug understanding. Peter knows the earpiece picks up sound perfectly well, and that Tony definitely is aware of the dilemma Peter is currently facing.

Peter stares at the stark white of the tablecloth linen as he thinks. Normally, his anxiety would be through the roof in this sort of situation, but he works hard to keep his cool. Take a step back. Breathe.

Tony would never put him in danger, not even the mild kind of danger that barely deserves the title, like the danger of profound embarrassment. Peter knows this, feels it deep and strong and warm in his chest.

He does _so_ want to be good, though. He wants to make the right choice. What does Tony want him to do here? Is choosing the cheap champagne the way to go, because it proves he’s not with Tony for the money or the expensive treats? Or maybe… well. Tony would never believe that about Peter, not anymore; they’ve had a few years to murder that particular hang-up of Tony’s, so what could it be?

Should he pick the expensive one, to show that he notices how hard his lover works to spoil him? Is that its own way of showing gratitude, through frank acknowledgement and sheer, hedonistic enjoyment? Does Tony want Peter to engage in a little light bacchanalia this morning?

Or, gosh. _Uh-oh_. Where does Peter get off assuming that Tony is paying for this at all? Nobody has said as much, not explicitly.

He tamps down the rising panic and tries to think, tries to bring himself back to his rational self of a few moments ago, the Peter who had said to himself with certainty that Tony would always watch out for him. And, _oh_.

Tony wants him to choose for himself, and likely barely cares what he picks. It’s about the choosing.

Peter steels himself and picks something expensive, but not extremely so, called Philipponnat Clos des Goisses Brut, because it’s French and he surmises that champagne must be alright if it’s French, right?

“Good boy, smart boy,” Tony breathes over the line as Peter gives the server his choice. Peter shivers, at that.

“And what vintage will sir be having? The hotel keeps the 2004 and the 2007 on hand, for our more discerning guests.”

“Uhm,” Peter says and picks at random, blurting that he’d like the 2004, please, just a half second before Tony murmurs the same year in his ear. This apparently amuses the older man, and Peter hears a dark chuckle as the server steps away to procure the champagne.

“Yes, you’re a very smart boy, indeed.”

Peter smiles.

\---

Peter comes out of the hotel pleasantly buzzed, from both the champagne and the way his waiter had continually referred to him as ‘sir’. Alcohol normally doesn’t affect him much, and his server had seemed very surprised at someone as slight as Peter finishing the bottle alone. He’s not drunk, just tipsy due to the high quality of the vintage, and Tony’s voice lights up Peter’s limbic system like a wash of warm sun after a sudden cloudburst.

Tony sounds happy, too, now that Peter is back within view of CCTV. After a few moments of observing Peter’s loose gait as he makes his way down the street, Tony suggests a reprieve.

“Hey, puppy. What if we set you up with some pampering, next? My event is almost over, and I want us to relax together even if we can’t actually be together in the literal sense.”

Peter gives his assent, and lets Tony direct him several streets over to a chic spa nestled near a larger mall.

When he walks in, a petite Asian woman gestures for him to go to the right, to the men's side, and on back to the massage area, and Peter marvels for a moment at his mental image of Tony simultaneously watching him on CCTV, surreptitiously, as he murmurs instructions from a map of the area _and_ makes a reservation at the spa, all while maintaining a passable social presence at some silly bruncheon.

Peter’s lover is such a genius and he feels lit from within, secondhand proud, at this latest iteration of that realization. It’s not as if he didn’t know Tony was intelligent and powerful and a great multitasker, it’s just that it’s still so exciting every time he remembers. (I’m his and he’s mine, and _how_ did that happen, again?)

Peter gets led to one of the massage rooms and settles in. He hesitates for a moment, but figures he’ll be laying on his stomach and his pecs won’t be visible anyway. He takes off his clothes and wraps up with the huge, sheet-like towels that have been supplied for that very purpose. He lays face down on the massage table and waits for the masseur or masseuse to come in. There’s soft music playing.

Peter’s almost asleep when he remembers Tony in his ear and he murmurs, “Hey, you still there?”

“Sure am, sunshine. I was just listening to you getting all settled and relaxed. I wish I was there with you. You gotta speak up, though… are you already laying down for your massage, like a good boy?”

“Oh! Yes, I am. I guess the headrest on the table muffles the sound to the earpiece, huh?”

“Got it in one, smart boy. That’s okay. This guy has good reviews and I had FRIDAY do a quick background check on him too, just to be safe; he’s licensed and there are no quibbles on his record.”

“Oh, uh, that’s good. Thanks, sir,” Peter says, a bit shy and showing it through his use of the honorific. That’s something he rarely does anymore, but some aspect of being so utterly taken care of today is bringing out his submissive streak.

As Peter ponders this, the door opens and a someone steps through it, a man who Peter assumes from his limited information is the masseur. He can see the guy’s shoes, which are huge compared to Peter’s boots, and then the man walks out of his line of sight to get the massage oil. It kind of smells like *nothing* and it's a little unsettling.

He starts by swiping the oil across Peter’s toned back in light palmfuls that alternate across the area, just getting skin acquainted with skin. There’s no preamble, which Peter finds odd, but the guy does seem professional, and Peter’s enhanced senses catch the rough scrub of calluses along the planes of his back as the masseur digs in.

“He’s been instructed not to talk,” Tony says via KAREN’s earpiece, voice low. Peter starts at the unexpected sound of Tony suddenly answering his unspoken question, and the masseur backs off for a moment. He must think Peter is reacting to him. After a beat, the massage begins again, and Peter feels thumbs pressing hard on either side of his spine as they slide up toward his neck in perfect tandem. Peter groans, at both the actual loosening of his muscles and the almost-but-not-quite-familiar feel of the masseur’s calluses.

Tony continues, and once again happens to answer Peter’s silent wonderings. “He’s more of the strong but silent type, anyway. Says in his file he used to be a mechanic before the recession hit and he needed a career change.”

Or at least, that’s what Peter _thinks_ he says, because he’d hazed a little at the word ‘mechanic’ and the understanding that there’s _no way_ Tony didn’t pick this guy out, just for him, and it’s just, it’s just _so_.

It’s so Tony, to want to do the impossible, to want to find someone whose hands would approximate the ones Peter wants on him the most. Peter feels full up with the knowledge, and he moans as the silent masseur unspools a knot of muscle that had made its home next to his shoulder blade.

Tony whispers _at_ him, practically assaulting Peter with his words through the comm, and says, “Does it feel good, sweetheart? Do his hands feel almost like mine? I emailed the place some notes on all your special spots.”

Peter just _purrs_ , and believes it, because the dude is digging in around his brachials and delts and along the spine before it dips and he’s in heaven.

“Are you gonna moan like a good little slut the _whole_ time or just for this first half?” Tony teases him, and Peter feels the epithet like a _zing_ up his spine and, yes.

He needed a bit of humiliation mixed in with the sheer _care_ Tony is taking with him, because without the nasty bits, the good starts to feel fake, too sweet, too good for someone like him. It’s like putting a pinch of salt in chocolate chip cookies, to enhance the sweet flavor, or at least it is for Peter. He whines, and the masseur pauses, but ultimately leans his weight back onto his palm and continues working at Peter’s lower back.

Tony laughs, nice and loving and smoky and right in Peter’s ear.

“It’s up to you, kid, but it’s one or the other; you can’t have it both ways. Either you’re mine and you don’t want this stranger to hear your slutty sounds, or _you’re still mine_ and you want to be loud for me because he doesn’t matter in the slightest. Choose.”

Peter chooses, and knows that Tony wouldn’t have minded either way.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter ends up blissed out and lax from the massage, and he’s sure that’s exactly what Tony intended. He honestly feels as though he needn’t catch the bus; he could simply float home.

The only thing snagging on Peter’s enhanced senses is the cling of the massage oil and its strange scentlessness. He says as much to Tony, who has left his brunch event by now.

“Hmmm, I requested that the spa not use anything that would be too overpowering; I warned them you had a very sensitive nose. I guess they took my advice too literally and used basic carrier oil,” Tony muses.

“It’s just… weird, you know? I’ve grown used to literally _everything_ having a smell, since I got my powers.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tony challenges playfully. “What does Daddy smell like to you, baby?”

“Good,” Peter mumbles back, shy again. “Like the couch in your study. And like breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Tony quotes, questioning, as Peter spots an empty bench next to a bus stop for the crosstown line that will take him back to the dorms.

“Yeah,” Peter explains, “...like, morning-after-at-your-place kind of breakfast; you smell like that masala chai stuff you keep trying so you can feel trendy and superior, and you also smell like the boring old man tea that you always end up drinking when you remember you don’t like masala chai, and give it to me.”

“Old? _Old_?” Tony squawks, and Peter can hear the indignation even through the earbud. He sits down on the bench to wait out Tony’s oncoming conniption.

Peter rests one arm along the back of the bench, getting comfortable. “That’s what I said, yes.”

“I’ll show you old,” Tony mutters, as if Peter can’t hear him, and then his voice takes on that specific timbre of easy dominance and competence that Peter routinely melts for. “I see you, my pretty rent-boy.”

It’s Peter’s turn to squawk, as he twists around trying to catch sight of nearby surveillance cameras.

Oh god, there’s one on the emergency response safety alert pole, just there.

“You heard me, sunshine. I’m gonna make you ruin yourself like if I was there with you, and you’ll do it all, too. You’ll do it all to yourself like I’m paying for you.”

That punches a satisfying burst of breath out of Peter, and he stares down the camera on the emergency pole with his palms flat on his quads. “What should I do?”

“Slide to the end of the bench, towards me,” Tony’s voice instructs.

Peter scoots in the direction of the safety station, but Tony’s voice pours into his ear like smoke under a door, and he clarifies with, “Right on the edge, darling. Sit that pretty hole of yours right on the edge of the bench and start grinding for me.”

“Wh-what?” Peter gasps.

“Put your headphones on so people won’t think you’re nuts, and then just rock on the ridge of the bench, like you’re jamming to a song or whatever.”

“But, but, people will-”

“Safeword?” Tony asks mildly, the word rolling right over Peter’s insecurities like they’re not a threat and Peter loves him for it; that conviction in Tony’s voice makes Peter believe it, too.

“Uhm, it’s AT-AT,” Peter replies, on reflex.

“And do you need to use it, sweetheart? Or are you gonna ride the bench like it’s the ridge of Daddy’s thigh? Like it’s Daddy’s cock?”

“Ohhh,” Peter moans quietly, as he starts moving. He hears some kind of praise from Tony, breathy over their connection, but doesn’t register the actual words. He just lets the feeling wash over him as he puts his wired earbuds in for show, no music.

After a few minutes of rocking, though, he whines a bit and knows KAREN’s earpiece will pick it up.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Scoot off the ridge a little and cross your legs for me. We’ll get you there,” Tony promises.

Peter pulls the earbuds out and loops them around his neck as he squeezes his thighs together. He thinks, maybe, if Tony keeps talking to him, and Peter keeps rhythmically clenching his leg muscles and just maybe if he could just get the press of a few fingers on his little-

“Reach down and press your fingers against that tiny, pink cock, okay? It’ll look like you’re just adjusting yourself; guys do it all the time. No biggie,” Tony instructs.

“I don’t think I can…” Peter whispers, tightening his thighs again and shifting his weight.

“Of course you can,” Tony argues. “You’re on Daddy’s bench, with Daddy’s voice in your ear, and Daddy paid for you; you’re gonna do anything I tell you to, handsome.”

Peter feels a sharp shiver up his spine, but doesn’t turn around. He just leans back and feels the cold, square impression of a brass plaque through his shirt. He knows, with utter certainty, that it must say something akin to ‘Maintained in care of generous MIT alumnus Anthony Stark’.

 _Fuck_ , that’s hot.

Peter leans his weight more fully against the backrest and the hard metal of the plaque, levering his hips up as if he’s merely shifting his weight, and presses his hand into his crotch as he clenches his thighs together once more.

Apparently, seeing Peter’s reactions and his utter compliance unlocks something in Tony and a litany of words flows forth through Peter’s earbud as he continues to surreptitiously rock and press and grind, looking for all the world like a dude who just can’t get comfortable.

Tony pours a mixture of filth and praise and degradation and promise into his ear, unceasing.

Peter comes three minutes later, just a little one, to be sure. It’s a shiver and a gasp and a slow, seeping warmth; it happens moreso in his mind than in his body and that's just fine. But it’s enough to make him pliant and agreeable, enough to make him forget how much he hates malls due to the sensory overload associated with them.

It’s enough that he gets up from the bench when he sees his bus approaching, and heads exactly where Tony tells him, to the nearby collection of boutiques and upscale stores that Cambridge calls its own.

Apparently, Tony has more to give Peter, today. And Peter, bless him-

He’s gonna be a good boy and take it.

\---

Everything echoes, footsteps heavily etching his men's size sixes in dirt on the tiles, in the grand mall.

Boutiques and cafés compete in a commercialized urban struggle, some striving charmingly, with their rustic and clean lacquered-wood floors and mahogany walls, with their large, warm-lettered names and discounts, all hoping to invite the crowds oblivious to the promenade of lover-led Peter. Other venues are sleeker, austere and unashamedly forward, black and white and one other lucky color, as if anything more vivid would be gauche and gaudy in their greeting of the consumerist masses.

"Which one?" Peter asks, more lost in the sound and the fury of it all.

"Left now."

And left now, he does. Thirty seconds earlier, he would have been faced with Fragrantica's Perfume, a palace of flower décor and salmon lust. He remembers stepping by, nervous, thinking. (Is this what Tony intended?)

He doesn't waste another glance further as a tiny doggy barks from some person's pet carrier; clearly the person places it at a higher priority in terms of attention, higher than the humans all around, certainly. Thirty seconds after, or in other words, approximately now, he faces celadon sharp cases and tasteful gold displays in the glassy preview of Johann Grant, a musk of woodsy air and brewery wafting from the door of the cologne shop.

 _Ah._ Something for every season, for every occasion; something for every _man_.

He’s acknowledged as such by Mr. British and classy; the shop attendant is welcoming with a polite nod from behind the counter. Peter steps into the cloud.

Before him, an alchemy den out of some rich imagination. Tony's, if Peter knows anything by his thousand and one past voyages. Over and over his face has made frustrated, heated, attached burials under his lover’s chin, breathing in, and it is that from which he recognizes that scent of power, worn on those long and bitter days when Tony feels like talking circles around brick walls, and he smells of permeating oak and sandalwood, a heart of dark cranberry and temptuous spices, a mocking pineapple tinge hanging high in the air, yellow as the noonday sun. Peter forgets the name but he knows it localizes in a ripple-blown jar, navy bow-tied at the stem, where it vents that dream of drive-Peter-crazy from his Mr. Stark’s dopp kit.

Peter spies the familiar treasure right away, despite the way the kaleidoscope of smells is making even his internal thoughts tumble and his words run together, weighted. He tests a tester, as one does, all school-girl giggle; he breathes in air laden with gentlemanly expectation.

"Looks like you're enjoying that, Petey."

Yes, he is, he tells the cologne store’s corner camera. It’s a lot like curling up with a tired Tony at the end of a tired day. The smell of curling in close, really, drinking in his touch and his ambience and retiring smooth against the resting sandalwood that, though unyielding, always warms under Peter’s gentle palm.

"You wear it sometimes," he replies, cradling, exploring the textured glass, each roll of it in his hand doling out thyme and beachy playfulness.

"Your aphrodisiac, then," breathes over Peter's ear like his cranberry pulse is under his lips. "It makes you all hot," like steam, "...and," like smoke, "...bothered."

Peter, dizzy and disjointed, doesn’t say a word. (Doesn’t need to.)

"I have you on strings. And isn't that a handsome image, my Peter Parker, tied up in red rope and struggling to get closer,” Tony says with his voice all low and sweet and mean, too.

Peter trips on those strings and stumbles to another display, wanting to be a good, brave boy and seek out the unfamiliar. It doesn’t work because this particular _pour homme_ just reminds him of his genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, too. It’s so _and_ and _and_ and _and_.

It’s so _more_ , like Tony always is, and Peter slurs a shiver of fear that maybe all things made ‘for men’, from now, will always just seem to him to have been made for Tony. As if Tony is the only ideal his mind can supply to match that nebulous mask, ‘man’. As if Tony is the only man he will ever know.

And doesn’t that thought just flow?

This new scent, this new thought, hand in hand: Like a vintage wine, a restricted, refined shape for its bursting nature, energetic blueberries and bergamot. A greener, 'to the outdoors, old sport,' tale as old as time told in juniper and vine. A refined sense of wealth, drunk and old and beautiful, cognac and cedar, all wrapped up in desire for him (for Peter! (imagine that)), as if he could feel the tuxedo standing tall behind him and the breath of good breeding down the back of his neck.

"Oh, if you could only see the picture you make. Sheer animalistic need, trembling with dirty thoughts of us wrapped up in each other, mad in love, crazed with jungle fever."

(I see you, Tony doesn’t have to say.)

It's definitely a pleasant sort of poison, this partially noxious cascade of scents that differ and blend all from various glasses. He half expects he could run a finger ‘round the rim of them and start up a symphony, they are all so precise and different.

Peter feels delirious with all these choices, amongst all these fumes, like he’s not just swimming in pools of champagne, but being ferried from one to another, one wayward bubble at a time. He dips shallow into the next selection and shudders-sharp and bright-electric citric smell over the pillowing sillage of leather. He wades deeper in, kneels down obediently at its feet, ready to drown.

"Close your eyes. Breathe in, breathe out."

Tony, close, instructing him like Peter has to take it down his throat where Peter touches his fingers to his mouth, a wordless consent for the sake of the cameras

"Take it all in, baby."

And Peter does, he takes in the wide and the weighty scent of Armani Code against his senses, and it’s the one he wants, he knows that so well that he could choke on it.

He intends to buy a bottle, as soon as his head stops folding the walls in around him like origami. He needs to make his purchase and then take his leave, he knows; Peter’s senses have officially caused his thoughts to cross over from ‘unspooling’ to ‘unspun’.

And then, a familiar hand at his elbow, and another at the small of his back.

(You’re _here_.)

He won’t have to catch that bus after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut finale coming soon! I'm just a wee bit stuck. -Fey


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!

Tony creates a frame out of his own body for Peter to lean on, like a ballroom dancer. Peter is maneuvered out of the store, gently. He also ends up with the cologne he’d picked, carefully wrapped and packaged for his convenience; it appears the same way things always seem to appear whenever Tony actually, physically visits a store. Out of thin air.

They leave the mall and as soon as they hit the fresh air, Peter’s head begins to clear. He has the presence of mind to ask, “Were you always planning on coming here?”

“Of course, sunshine; why do you think I was stalling all morning?”

“Oh,” Peter says shyly, “...is that what all that spoiling was about, then?”

“No. That was because you deserve it,” Tony replies, whipping his sunglasses off to punctuate his words with the full force of his eyes on Peter’s, flashy grin intact.

They step onto the main sidewalk and Peter looks around for an Audi that will take them back to his dorm. Tony, meanwhile, turns right and starts walking. He exudes certainty that Peter will follow.

Peter does follow, tripping like a good puppy to catch up to him. When he does, Tony takes his hand and they enjoy a nice, meandering walk back to Peter’s dorm while Tony tells him stories about this or that landmark, or restaurant, or fountain he nearly drowned himself and Rhodey by passing out in while they were handcuffed together.

By the time they reach the dorm, Peter’s leg muscles feel like water and there’s sweat dripping down the back of his neck from the sun beating down on it. Mr. Stark looks collected in his high-end workout gear, although there is sweat beading at his temples that makes his hair into tiny spikes. “How are you not dying right now?”

Tony snorts, “You’re the one who drank a bottle of champagne for breakfast, had all your muscles loosened, a quickie on a bench, and sensory overload in the mall. I’m fine, kid.”

The first blast of air conditioning on Peter’s face feels like being reborn, as Tony holds the door open for him. Peter makes to head up to the stairs but Tony stops at the RA-on-duty’s desk and leans against the high counter built into it. He’s all easy charm and rumbling words.

“I believe Mr. Parker should have a package waiting for him, sent by courier?”

“Oh! Yes, Mr. Stark. I signed for it… Here you are.”

“Thank you,” Tony purrs, probably just to watch Peter squirm from the corner of his eye, Peter thinks. (Motherfucker.) And then, as if he’s heard Peter’s thought, he adds, “You didn’t peek, did you?”

The RA gapes and then hurries to reassure Tony with a stammering, “No, no sir! We never open residents’ mail. Are you -- well, I guess I shouldn’t -- I hope your secret project goes well?”

But Tony has already taken the inconspicuous little package and started nudging Peter up the stairs. “Yes, my _protégé_ and I will be working hard on something top secret, so please, no interruptions.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark!”

They make their way to Peter’s dorm; he knocks quietly to see if his roommate is still in, or if the hair coloring has finished. Unfortunately, the answer is yes to both (the dye process is done and the smell has faded, but his roommate is still home). Tony makes quick work of that little issue, however.

“You? Yeah, nice to meet you. Here’s a hundred bucks. Get lost, and if you use it to buy takeout, have some manners and bring back some for Peter.”

( _Well,_ _that settles that_.)

Peter doesn’t like bullies, he really _really_ doesn’t. But there’s something to be said for Tony calmly ordering people about; he’s no shame, all command.

That why when Tony opens the package they’d picked up to reveal, first of all, a pair of fucking knee pads, Peter goes with it. He sits on his bed as Tony pulls his sweaty jeans and briefs off of him and straps Peter into the knee pads before ordering him to his knees on the hard, parquet floor of the bedroom.

The barest sting of the floor through the cushion of the pads is the perfect salt for his chocolate chip cookie batter.

Tony checks in, anyway. “Safeword, handsome?”

“It’s still AT-AT… the Alzheimer’s is setting in early, huh?” Peter returns.

“Watch it, brat,” Tony says with an ominous chuckle, before he unceremoniously reaches around Peter to suction a small, black dildo to the floor in front of him. It’s thin, but still more substantial than fingers, and Peter feels a shiver go through him.

Tony, nestling in behind him fully clothed, leans forward again to place a small bottle of high-quality lube in Peter’s line of sight. Then he leans down a little to press his mouth against the sweaty curls at the nape of Peter’s neck and murmur reassurances. “You okay with this? I did my best today to relax you and wear you out so maybe your body would be ready for all this, but it’s absolutely no big deal if you want to do something else. Or nothing at all, even.”

Peter leans back against him and thinks, really thinks about what he’s up to right now. “I wanna do this. I think I can do it, I just. You’re being so nice, it starts to feel wrong. I love it, it’s just. It gives the bad parts of my brain too much ammo to work with.”

Tony sneaks his hand up and around and under Peter’s shirt and activates his bracelet. Peter feels the Iron Gauntlet form against both his skin and Tony’s hand. Tony presses his armored palm into Peter’s sternum and flicks his pinky so the palm of the gauntlet starts vibrating. _That’s_ new. “I understand. It’s just,” and here Tony pauses, licks his lips at the delicious tone shift, and continues with, “I know a little boyslut like you needs to come so bad, wants it so much. So I thought, me being the Good Samaritan that I am, I would help my naughty puppy out.”

Peter groans and sinks into this frighteningly _safe_ variant of humiliation and degradation with another tremor fissuring through his body. He spreads his legs a little wider. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I know it’s not your fault anyway; little boy-whores just can’t help themselves, can they?”

“No,” Peter whispers back, and though his voice is soft and low, he’s squealing in his head at how good this is.

“Don’t worry, I can be generous; I’ll help you,” Tony promises, sneaking his armored hand down to press fully against Peter’s pelvic bone. The vibration of the gauntlet sends a little thrill, like a static shock, through his front. It’s electrifying, where the edge of the vibration is grinding against his little cock.

Peter lolls his head back to rest on Tony’s shoulder, exposes his throat, and says, “I know, God, do I know it.”

Tony breathes against the side of his face. “Can I touch you here?” he ghosts over Peter’s ear as he cups Peter’s crotch.

Yes yes yes yes yes _yes_ , Peter thinks and he opens his mouth to say it out loud before he realizes he already has. Tony’s chuckle gets pressed into his hair and he blushes as he feels the older man’s fingers pressing into his slickness, gentle. The reach makes the rumble of Tony’s armored palm press more fully to his center and it’s hella _good_.

They sway together for a moment, Peter’s sweating back pressed to Tony’s front as Peter’s blood warms to him, in more ways than one.

“That’s it, take those big breaths. I got you. I’m not gonna let my thirsty little _bitch_ go without. You’re gonna come whether you want to or not, in a few. I’m just here to streamline the process.”

And, oh, Peter loves this, when Tony’s mind flips over from treating him like a puppy to treating him like a machine he’s fixing. Machines don’t have genders, don’t have to pass as anything but functional. It’s a kind of freedom.

His fingers are inside Peter now, careful of the iron catch of the Gauntlet. That isn’t allowed to sink inside; it’s just the fingertips really, but it’s enough for Peter to feel a punched-out, fluttering kind of press along the little rough, spongy patch that he often prefers to refer to as a kind of prostate.

Hilariously, Peter flashes back to the scene in that Madea movie where it’s explained that yes, Madea _got_ a prostate, y’all. The giggle, at that, overtakes him and Tony bites him on the shoulder.

“I see there’s a glitch somewhere, if you’re this distracted.”

“No, no sir; I’m just happy. This feels _amazing_.”

Slightly mollified, Tony crooks his fingertips at just the right angle, as if he’s hooking Peter and pulling him forward by his silky heat, and helps Peter sink onto the little dildo that’s been lying in wait.

Peter hisses, despite the thinness of the toy, and lets Tony guide his hips so it continues rubbing over that spongy patch which is bigger, now, than it was. This is more than he’s used to, but it also feels so good to not feel empty, to feel so filled. ( _Fuck_.)

“Look at you,” the older man says archly, “...you didn’t even need the lube, did you? You’re perfect and ready, just the way you are.”

Peter hears ‘perfect’, but he also hears ‘slut’ and he knows Tony gets that. “I love you so much,” he breathes, in thanks.

“I love you too, baby boy. Now let’s get you off, hmm?” Tony asks, voice a heated murmur.

And, with that, Tony presses his right hand hard against Peter, all vibrating strength, while his left grips Peter by the asscheek in a way that causes a delicious pull and has his smaller hole twitching. Tony uses his grip to control Peter’s movement on the toy, keeping that tender spot inside grinding against the head of the little black dildo like machinery.

“Relax, kid. Let your muscles go lax and let the pleasure fill you up like a cup. Don’t think, just feel.”

And Peter tries, he really does, he just doesn’t like being the center of attention like this.

As if reading his mind, Tony shuffles back a little with his left hand still thumbing at Peter’s ass and hip. But, the rumbling gauntlet comes away from Peter’s little cock and he wants to cry, even as he keeps grinding and bouncing on the toy. That is, until he understands (by the sound) that Tony is furiously working at pulling his workout pants down and freeing his own erection and _fuck_.

Tony gets his pants down just enough and then promptly reaches around Peter to use the strength of the gauntlet to easily detach the toy from the floor. His left slips up under and between Peter’s thighs to lift him by the cunt up off the floor and onto Tony’s chest. Peter’s weight gets leant back into the older man and the brief emptiness and weightlessness gives him just enough space to feel his center fill up with wetness and pleasure like a cup, like Tony had said, and suddenly he understands.

Peter feels it like a blow when Tony presses the dildo back into him with his armored hand, still holding Peter up and back against him. The older man’s cock is slipping in Peter’s sweat and there’s a delicious press against Peter’s hole in the back and it’s _so_ much, just the hint and promise of it. It says, ‘one day’. And Peter _wants_.

Tony twitches his pinky even as the toy continues rubbing, Peter’s pulse spiking hard and breath coming short, and the vibration at the palm of the gauntlet suddenly goes into overdrive, _oh God_. And Tony’s chest is heaving under Peter’s back and everything is happening at once and Peter does, he feels that cup inside him start to tip over, run over, well up with need and flow flow _flow_.

“Let go, little pup,” Tony barks, and pinches at Peter’s little bud of a cock.

And fuck if it isn’t all over right then and there and if a veritable _puddle_ of wetness doesn’t gush out of Peter, spraying over the pair of them and the floor. Tony lets him back down to his knees and bends him forward like a bad dog to rub his nose in it so the older man can plaster himself, pressing, to Peter’s back, snatch the lube, and pour it over himself to rut between Peter’s thighs, as Peter pants his thanks. Even though Tony’s just using his thighs, not going inside, it still feels like fucking and Peter’s consciousness ripples with aftershocks and his last coherent thought is that his earlier words bear repeating.

“I love you, Daddy,” Peter wheezes against the floor, boneless.

Tony just laughs as he continues rutting against Peter’s skin.

\---

In the gentle blue light of early morning they take the opposite of a walk of shame. Peter and Tony head to Weeks footbridge and they traverse it lazily, making time to stop and enjoy the view of the water while they finish their coffee and croissants. It feels good to let the fresh, chilly breeze wash over them as they stand in companionable silence, ignoring bikers and joggers who ignore them in turn.

They tease each other, content, and when Tony clambers halfway over the edge of the bridge to drop bits of bread onto the heads of a herd of passerby ducks…. Well. Peter never claimed his love wasn’t patently ridiculous.

“Steady there, Quentin,” he quips. “Don’t fall in.”

Tony hops down safely and regards Peter a moment, eyes dark with an impish and intelligent mischief. He sketches a chivalrous hat tip to Peter. “As you like, Mr. Caulfield.”

Peter looks away, embarrassed to be caught making literary references at this hour, but Tony just winds his clever fingers around Peter’s wrist and pulls him in for a kiss. When the kiss breaks, he murmurs a request against Peter’s lips.

“Drown me in honeysuckle, handsome. Take me down with you.”

“Can do, sir.”

What a morning after it is.


End file.
